Article: Awatere Valley | Off Roading
Awatere Valley | Off Roading
Pull up a chair. The fire's warm, and you're in good company.
Adventure has an odd way of disguising itself and this night in Marlborough's high country was no different.
Sometimes it arrives as a helicopter lifting into the Southern Alps or a week spent chasing game through snow-covered basins. Those stories are easy to recognise.
Other times it begins with little more than a text message.
"Fancy heading into the Awatere this weekend?"
No flights. No passports. No elaborate planning.
Just good mates, capable four-wheel drives, and a few gates separating the public road from thousands of hectares of Southern Marlborough high country.
It reminded me that some of the finest adventures don't require travelling across the world.
Sometimes they're waiting only a couple of hours from home.
Southern Marlborough is a country of contrasts.
Most visitors know the neat rows of vineyards stretching across the Wairau Plain, but beyond them the landscape changes almost without warning. The roads narrow, the valleys lengthen and the hills begin folding over one another until they disappear into the distance.
Out here sheep stations measure themselves not in paddocks but in valleys.
The fences are longer.
The skies are bigger.
The silence is deeper.
Richmond Brook and Corleggy are exactly the sort of places that make you appreciate just how much country still exists beyond the farm gate.
Private roads thread their way across ridgelines, climb impossibly steep faces before dropping into hidden gullies and follow rivers that have been shaping these valleys for thousands of years. They're working stations first and foremost, built for shepherds, stock trucks and generations of hard farming rather than weekend explorers.
Being welcomed onto country like this is a privilege that should never be taken for granted.
By the time we met on the edge of the Awatere Valley, the excitement was already building.
Matt climbed into the Discovery.
Robin followed with camera gear tucked safely away.
Our friend Crispin joined us in another truck, along with a couple of new faces we'd soon be sharing a campfire with.
There is always something satisfying about preparing a vehicle for a trip like this.
Duffel bags strapped securely to the roof rack.
Jerry cans checked.
Recovery gear packed where it should be.
Tyre pressures dropped just enough to soften the ride and improve traction.
Then the radios crackled to life.
"Ready?"
Ready.
The convoy rolled through the first gate and civilisation quietly disappeared behind us.
There is a rhythm to driving good back-country tracks.
It's nothing like racing.
If anything, it's the opposite.
Progress is measured rather than hurried.
You begin reading the ground differently. Loose shale. Embedded rock. Washouts. Water bars. Ruts worn by decades of farm traffic.
Every corner asks a small question.
Every climb deserves a little respect.
The Discovery 3 has earned my trust over many years now.
It isn't perfect.
No vehicle is.
But time and shared adventures create a confidence that's difficult to explain. I know how it feels climbing steadily in low range. I know where each corner sits. I know when to let the suspension do its work instead of trying to force the vehicle through an obstacle.
The old girl simply gets on with the job.
The tracks climbed steadily into the hills.
Below us the Awatere Valley spread out in every direction, the patchwork of pasture broken only by ribbons of river and dark plantations climbing the steeper slopes.
It was impossible not to stop every few kilometres.
Not because the driving demanded it.
Because the views did.
Every ridgeline revealed another.
Every corner seemed to open a completely different landscape.
Someone would pull over.
Doors opened.
Cameras appeared.
A few minutes later someone else would say,
"Right then..."
Engines started once more and the convoy rolled on.
Nobody minded the delays.
The scenery was simply too good to rush through.
Of course, no proper four-wheel-drive trip would be complete without a few moments that required everyone to pay attention.
Not because they were dangerous.
Because they deserved respect.
One climb twisted sharply between deep wheel ruts before cresting over loose rock. Another descent disappeared just steep enough that all you could see through the windscreen was blue sky before gravity gently took over.
The radios became noticeably quieter.
Conversations stopped.
Each driver concentrated on choosing the right line.
A little throttle.
No sudden steering.
Slowly...
Slowly...
Then, almost without drama, another obstacle was behind us.
Someone laughed over the radio.
"That was easier than it looked."
Funny how often that happens once it's finished.
Nobody became stuck.
Nobody broke anything.
No recoveries.
No bent panels.
Just good driving, good judgement and capable vehicles doing exactly what they were built to do.
Honestly, that's far more satisfying than creating drama where none is needed.
One of the things I enjoy most about trips like these is the camaraderie.
There is something about spending hours together in remote country that strips conversation back to what matters.
Nobody cares what you do for work.
Nobody asks about deadlines.
The discussions drift naturally from travel to family, from old adventures to future plans.
The occasional joke is repeated far more often than it deserves.
Everyone laughs anyway.
Some friendships are built over years.
Others begin around a campfire in a single evening.
Both feel equally genuine.
By late afternoon we reached the river.
The decision about where to camp was almost made for us.
A flat patch of grass.
Clear water flowing over smooth stones.
Shelter from the wind.
Plenty of firewood nearby.
Perfect.
Within minutes everyone had quietly fallen into familiar routines.
One person gathered wood.
Someone else unpacked tables.
The tarp went up.
The roof tent unfolded.
Chairs appeared from impossible places inside the vehicles.
Coolers emerged.
Before long it looked as though we'd been living there for days.
If there was one member of the team having an even better time than the rest of us, it was Skye.
For a Labrador, life simply doesn't improve much beyond rivers, open country and a camp full of people she likes.
She inspected everything.
Patrolled the riverbank.
Accepted scratches from anyone willing to provide them.
Eventually she decided enough exploration had been done for one day and claimed her leather bed beneath the tarp as though it had always belonged there.
Every now and then she'd lift her head, check that everyone was still nearby, then settle back down with that quiet contentment dogs seem to understand so well.
Perhaps they have life worked out better than we do.
As evening settled across the valley the temperature dropped just enough to remind us winter wasn't too far away.
The first flames caught quickly.
Within minutes the fire pit glowed with a bed of red coals.
Steaks hit the grill with that unmistakable hiss that instantly makes everyone hungry, even if they weren't five minutes earlier.
Sausages followed.
Someone passed around another beer.
Whisky appeared shortly afterwards.
There are undoubtedly better meals served in restaurants around the world.
I've eaten in some of them.
Very few have tasted better than steak cooked over hardwood after a full day exploring remote back-country with good friends.
Context matters.
Food always tastes better when you've earned it.
The fire burned late into the evening.
Stories grew slightly taller with each passing hour.
Future trips were planned.
Old ones improved through repeated telling.
Nobody checked their watches.
There was no reason to.
The valley had gone completely quiet apart from the occasional crack of burning timber and the steady murmur of the river only metres away.
Eventually the embers began settling lower.
One by one everyone disappeared into tents.
I climbed into the roof tent on top of the Discovery.
There is something deeply satisfying about sleeping above your vehicle after spending the day asking it to carry you into places like this.
The canvas wrapped around the evening.
The last glow from the fire faded below.
Sleep arrived almost immediately.
Morning in camp begins long before anyone speaks.
The river is already moving.
Birds begin their conversations.
Mist hangs lazily across the valley floor while the first sunlight slowly works its way down the surrounding hillsides.
Someone eventually unzips a tent.
Another stirs the fire back to life.
Before long the familiar smell of coffee drifts through camp.
It is one of my favourite moments of any trip.
No engines.
No hurry.
Just hot coffee warming cold hands while the valley wakes around you.
Skye, naturally, was already awake.
She had important morning patrols to complete.
Packing camp always feels slightly disappointing.
Not because you're eager to leave.
Quite the opposite.
The gear disappears back into its place on the Discovery.
Duffels return to the roof rack.
Straps tighten.
The fire is drowned, scattered and left exactly as it should be.
Soon enough engines start once again.
The convoy winds slowly back along the same tracks that had brought us in.
Somehow they look different in the morning light.
Perhaps we do too.
By the time the tyres finally met sealed road again, we'd travelled only a relatively short distance from home.
Yet it felt much farther.
That is the gift these places offer.
They create genuine separation without demanding enormous expense or months of planning.
They remind us that adventure isn't measured by kilometres travelled.
It's measured by memories collected.
Good company.
A capable vehicle.
Remote country.
A faithful dog asleep beside the fire.
Coffee at sunrise.
Steak over glowing coals.
Laughter echoing across a valley.
Sometimes that's all an adventure ever needs to be.
And perhaps that's enough.
Go on the adventure. Come home a better man.
Wherever your next adventure takes you, remember there's always a place for you around our campfire. Until next time.
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